The Wrong Kind of Forensics
by J.R.Scotty
Summary: Sherlock and his family have moved to America. Sherlock misses his internship at Scotland Yard, so his mother finds a forensics club for him to join, which his brother-in-law John is a part of also. "Mother knows best" spites Sherlock again as he embarks on a journey brought about by a simple play on words, however unintentional. Teen!lock AU; Sherlolly; Jary; slight Lestronovan


**A/N:** Howdy! :D So, I've written lots of other stuff, but this is my first fanfic. So I'm pretty excited! I have the whole idea for this story pretty much solid in my mind, and I'm hoping to turn it into a bit of a series, but eh... we'll see how that goes. :P

Due to working multiple jobs on top of all my homework, I might not be able to update terribly often, but I will do my best. :)

Anywho, this story is set in modern-day America. I used almost all of the main Sherlock characters. All of the main characters, except Sherlock and John, are based off of me and some of my closest friends, kept, of course, as close to show canon as humanly possible. And because they're all from America, they're all American. Spare me the hate mail... :P [The concept wouldn't have worked in my brain otherwise, so yeah.]

And, I should probably warn you that this story is based off of a really random dream I had. So if anything is really REALLY confusing, that would probably be why. :P

Anywho, on with the story!

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><p>17-year-old Sherlock Holmes was surprised, and not in a good way, either. This was certainly the last thing he expected to be forced into by his loving, doting (and rather oppressive) mother. But as his father dropped him off at the appointed location (that looked everything like a mud pit and nothing like a "tournament facility", whatever that was supposed to look like), he couldn't help but poke his head back through the car's open window and complain, "Father, this does not appear to have anything to do with forensics, unless it's a 'dinosaur dig', in which case, you know I abhor paleontology."<p>

Mr. Holmes sighed. "Sherlock, you told your mother what you wanted to do, and she got this activity, whatever it is, all set up for you. The least you could do is not complain about it, hm?"

Sherlock scowled for a moment. "If I must." He glanced to his right at the sight of a large group of teenagers, all wearing full suits, crossing past the front of the car. "But I'm quite sure Mum and I have very different interpretations of forensics.

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><p>Molly Hooper opened her eyes and straightened up in her seat as she felt the truck slow down and make a left turn. <em>We must be there,<em> she thought excitedly. _Oh, my first tournament! This will be grand!_ She scanned the massive parking lot that was full of minivans and RVs, her arms and legs bumping about due to the less than even dirt road they now drove. "I think there's a spot right there, Aunt Kathrine," she suggested, pointing to an empty spot in the next row.

"I see it," her aunt replied, maneuvering the fifth-wheel around the row and into the space. Satisfied that it was parked straight, she turned to Molly. "Now, Molly, before you go rampaging the countryside, you need to be aware of the facility rules." She retrieved a paper from her door pocket and handed it to Molly. "The facility has asked that either we are with our children at all times, or we leave them in this building here," she indicated the correct building on the map on the paper. "You are not to be anywhere else, including the parking lot, unless I or Mary's mother is with you at all times. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Molly nodded. "Could you take me to the building, then?"

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><p>Sherlock stood in the middle of the crowded, muddy parking lot observing the bustle around him. The teenagers in suits (that Sherlock noticed were <em>everywhere<em>) were distracting him. He had a feeling he should be looking for John Watson, the closest thing he had to a friend and the only reason he was here – wherever here was. That unimportant bit of information had eluded Sherlock anyway. But he knew John was here because he had texted "I made it. Text me when you get here."

Oh. He hadn't texted John. Well, that would explain things. Retrieving his phone from his jacket pocket, Sherlock sent off a quick text to John before spying him just a few rows away in the parking lot.

"John!" Sherlock called to the shorter teen, running to join him. "John, this is lovely. Do tell me what is going on."

"_Sherlock!_" John hissed, "please don't tell me you're alone."

Sherlock fell into stride with John and raised an eyebrow at him. "What do you mean? Of course I'm alone."

John shook his head, his default response to all things Sherlock. "Sherlock, everyone needs to have an adult chaperone. Mom can sign the release for you, I suppose. But we have to be with a chap—an _adult_ chaperon at all times, unless we're in the student commons, which is this building here." He opened the door and ushered Sherlock inside, turning back to wave at his mother before following Sherlock.

The room they found themselves in was inadequately lit, but Sherlock could tell it was large. The wood floor had obviously seen better days, no thanks to the merciless metal chairs that were scattered about the crowded room. Unsuccessfully deciding on any one thing to concentrate on, he turned back to John, only to find him already making his way across the room to a table surrounded by people he was obviously familiar with. "John, wait a moment!" Sherlock dashed after him, catching him before he made it to the table. "You never answered my question."

"What question, Sherlock?"

Sherlock provided John with an exasperated sigh. "Why are we here, John? What are we doing?"

"Well," John cleared his throat, "this is a speech and debate tournament. We are going to debate."

"But Mum promised me forensics!" Sherlock protested.

John knelt and retrieved a dictionary from the large file box than Sherlock only now paid any mind to. Thumbing through the book, he found what he was looking for and held it out to Sherlock. "See? From Merriam-Webster: 'Forensics: belonging to, used in, or suitable to courts of judicature or to public discussion and debate'. That's what we're here for – public discussion and debate. Forensics."

"Oh, stupid, _stupid_!" Sherlock muttered under his breath. "Mum wouldn't know a litmus paper if it bit her." Turning his attention back to John, he replied, "I'm not supposed to be here, you know. There's been some terrible misunderstanding."

"Well, you can't back out now, Sherlock. We're debate partners. If you bail out, I can't compete. You're staying for this tournament. If you don't continue, that fine. But you're staying for this one." With that, John continued to the table, leaving Sherlock to mutter a few choice words after him before following him to the table.

Sherlock reached the table to find John conversing with almost a dozen people, all of whom he seemed well-acquainted with. Coming to a stop behind John's shoulder, he stood silently and began deducing everyone at the table one-by-one.

_John's girlfriend – the shade of her eyeshadow is a dead giveaway, has a reputation of being an impromptu matchmaker, cares about the latest styles but obviously doesn't have much money because the gold ring – John's ring, I'm sure – she's wearing is on a silver chain around her neck._

_Her best friend: often the proverbial unwilling accomplice, single, smarter than she looks but this experience is a new one, fiddling with the suit and occasionally her hair – likes the suit but isn't comfortable in it, doesn't like her hair up because it's too heavy on her scalp and the pins poke her so it must be fairly long, doesn't have many friends and holds those she does have in high regard._

_Guy with arm draped around her shoulder – not her boyfriend, more like a brother, very protective, sometimes too much so, likes politics, doesn't mind getting his hands dirty, relatively wealthy but willing to work for what he gets, has a thing for the girl sitting directly across from him, his father—_

"Are you going to introduce us to your friend there, John?" the girl who was obviously John's girlfriend asked sweetly.

Startled, John whipped his head around to find Sherlock smirking at him, obviously finding it amusing how easy it was to make him jump. Shaking his head, John put an arm behind Sherlock and pushed him toward the table. "Guys, this is Sherlock Holmes, my best-friend-turned-brother-in-law. Mike couldn't make it to this tourney, so I sort of borrowed him as a replacement partner. Sherlock, this is my girlfriend, Mary Morstan; her best friend, Molly Hooper; and their self-proclaimed older brother, Greg Lestrade. Mary and Molly are partners, like we are, and Greg tries to be partnered with Phil there." He gestured toward another teen on the other side of the table.

_Right as usual,_ Sherlock smiled smugly to himself.

"Oh, don't be like that, John," Mary playfully swatted him on the arm. Turning to Sherlock, she added, "Don't mind him, he's always like that." She offered her hand to Sherlock, who stared at it a moment before grasping it in a firm shake. "So, Sherlock, have you ever done debate before?"

Sherlock blinked boredly. "No, I haven't, but I don't suppose it should be too terribly difficult. John can do it, after all."

Mary glared at him, and opened her mouth to retort, but John stopped her.

"Easy, there, love," he murmured as he lay a gentle hand on her shoulders. "He's always like that." Turning back to Sherlock, he glared at him disapprovingly. "Sherlock you can't just say things like that here. We'll get adjudicated and thrown out of the tournament. You don't have to be nice, but for the love of germs, don't be rude!"

Sherlock sighed. Apparently no one here would agree with him either. He would have to make his own case, as usual. "John, I'm not being rude, I'm simply telling the truth."

"Yeah, well, you can't tell the truth like _that_," Greg piped up, wrapping his arm tighter around Molly's shoulders. "People don't usually take to kindly to it."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock responded, "I don't _care_. If people can't handle the truth, that's their problem. I simply bring the issues to light. For instance, why don't you tell her that you have a thing for her? She obviously isn't happy in her current relationship."

Greg turned several shades of red. Molly snickered.

"Sherlock..." John warned. Motioning for the girls and Greg to follow him, they all went off toward another group of people, Sherlock at their heels rattling off all the reasons why "she" wasn't happy.

"But the armband! Did nobody notice the rubber armband? One of those disturbingly tacky status symbol things, and she was flicking it around the table with scissors. _Scissors!_ The fact that she's not wearing the band in the first place, when her boyfriend (obviously _her_ boyfriend) is wearing the matching one on the arm that he has draped so convincingly around her shoulders, is strong support for the argument, but who would fiddle with something in that way unless they didn't care. She's just waiting for the "unfortunate accident" to occur, making it easier for her to break it off with him with fewer foreseeable repercussions, leaving her free to..."

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><p>Molly wound her arm around Greg's waist as they followed closely on John and Mary's heels. She wasn't sure where they were going, but she felt her heart beat a little bit faster as she heard—what was his name?—Sherlock behind them, rather showing off his massive intellect. Stupid as it probably was, Molly found herself entirely distracted by this newcomer. She had successfully maintained her air of nonchalance during their all-too-brief introduction, but she had most definitely noticed the tall, dark, well-dressed, snarky young man who John claimed as a best friend. <em>Kudos to John on that one,<em> she smirked. _I don't know if I could put up with that._ But she had just met him, and as it's not really a good idea to think such things about a person when you hardly know them, she decided not to solidify her opinion of him until she had the opportunity to become more thoroughly acquainted with him.

Well, now. That would require her to talk to him more. Molly was a shy sort of girl, not particularly liking the idea of extended conversations. Until now, that is. _Yes, I do believe I could have _quite_ a long chat with Sherlock Holmes._ She suppressed a nervous giggle at the thought, but not before Greg glanced at her, an amused half-smile flitting across his face.

"What's so funny, Molly?"

A telling blush spread across her cheeks. "Oh... it's nothing." A smile that could only be described as dreamy rested upon her already youthful face. Yes, she would most definitely be doing more socializing with Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
